The screeching of tires against asphalt pierced the serene countryside mourning like a gunshot.

Alexander Blackwood slammed his fist against the steering wheel of his Aston Martin, watching helplessly as a flock of chickens scattered across the dirt road, forcing him to swerve his $380,000 car into a muddy ditch.

“Damn it all to hell,” he growled, his British accent sharpening with anger as he assessed the damage.

The pristine silver hood was now splattered with earth, and one tire was sunk deep into the muck.

Alexander ran a hand through his perfectly styled dark hair, disrupting its meticulous arrangement.

This was not how a man worth $8.

2 billion should start his Monday.

His phone buzzed.

The caller ID displayed Johnson, his chief acquisition officer.

Tell me you’ve secured the Willowbrook property, Alexander demanded without preamble.

Signed and sealed, sir.

The old man finally caved this morning.

Willowbrook Valley is yours.

A smile stretched across Alexander’s chiseled face.

Excellent.

Send the finalized paperwork to my email.

Just as he ended the call, a voice with a thick country accent shattered his momentary triumph.

You nearly turned my chickens into Kentucky Fried Roadkill, Mr.

Fancy Car.

Alexander turned to see a woman marching toward him, a shepherd’s crook in one hand and a wicker basket in the other.

She wore mud splattered overalls, a plaid shirt with rolled up sleeves, and work boots that had seen better days.

Her auburn hair was tied in a messy ponytail beneath a worn straw hat, wisps escaping to frame a face flushed with anger.

Despite her disheveled appearance, Alexander couldn’t help but notice her striking green eyes, now narrowed in fury and the smattering of freckles across her sun-kissed nose.

“These aren’t just any chickens,” she continued, gesturing wildly with the crook.

“These are award-winning freerange organic egg laying champions.

” Alexander stepped out of the car, his Italian leather shoes immediately sinking into the mud.

Miss, I assure you I didn’t intentionally target your poultry ensemble, but perhaps if you kept your livestock properly contained.

Contained, she interrupted, jabbing a finger at his chest.

This is their home.

You’re on private property, buddy.

Actually, Alexander replied with a smug smile, pulling out his phone to display the email he just received.

As of 9:17 this morning, this is my property.

The woman froze, color draining from her face.

What are you talking about? Willowbrook Valley.

All 500 acres.

I just acquired it from a Mr.

Harold Jenkins.

She blinked rapidly, processing his words.

Then she let out a laugh that sounded more like a strangled cry.

Oh, that’s rich.

You’re Alexander Blackwood, the vulture capitalist who’s been harassing my father for months.

It was Alexander’s turn to be stunned.

your father.

Harold Jenkins is my daddy,” she said, crossing her arms.

“And I’m Abigail Jenkins.

My friends call me Abby, but you can call me Miss Jenkins, seeing as how we aren’t friends.

” Alexander’s mind raced.

Harold Jenkins had never mentioned a daughter during their negotiations.

He’d assumed the old man lived alone on this worthless piece of countryside that happened to sit at top a substantial deposit of rare earth minerals.

Well, Miss Jenkins,” he said, straightening his tie.

“It appears you have some packing to do.

The agreement your father signed gives you 30 days to vacate the premises.

” Instead of the despair he expected, Abigail’s eyes sparked with defiance.

She set down her basket and stepped closer, smelling of sunshine and something sweet he couldn’t identify.

“You may have bought this land, Mr.

Blackwood.

But you haven’t bought me, and I guarantee you’ll regret the day you set foot in Willowbrook Valley.

With that, she whistled sharply.

The chickens immediately formed a neat line behind her as she turned and marched away, leaving Alexander standing in the mud, watching her retreat with a mixture of annoyance and, though he’d never admit, fascination.

His phone buzzed again, his assistant this time.

Sir, your 11:00 acquisition meeting? Alexander glanced at his mudcovered shoes, then at the retreating figure of Abigail Jenkins.

“Resched it,” he said, surprising himself.

“Something unexpected has come up at Willowbrook.

” As he ended the call, Alexander caught himself watching the sway of Abigail’s ponytail as she disappeared around a bend in the road, her award-winning chickens in formation behind her.

For the first time in years, Alexander Blackwood, the man who could predict stock market shifts and corporate mergers with uncanny accuracy, had no idea what would happen next.

And strangely enough, he was looking forward to finding out.

Alexander Blackwood was not a man accustomed to manual labor.

Yet here he was attempting to extract his Aston Martin from the mud with nothing but determination and his $12,000 Brion suit which was now beyond salvation.

Need a hand there, city slicker.

The now familiar draw made him turn.

Abigail Jenkins leaned against a fence post, chewing on a piece of straw with undisguised amusement.

She’d exchanged her shepherd’s crook for a worn leather tool belt and had a red bandana tied around her neck.

“I’ve called for assistance,” Alexander replied stiffly, brushing mud from his hands.

“My team will arrive shortly with appropriate equipment.

” Abigail snorted.

“Your team will need wings to get here anytime soon.

The bridge over Miller’s Creek is washed out from last night’s storm.

Only other way around is a 2-hour detour.

” Alexander narrowed his eyes.

“And you’re telling me this because? Because because contrary to what you might think about us simple country folk,” she said, making air quotes, “we don’t leave people stranded.

Not even arrogant billionaires who steal family farms.

” Before Alexander could retort, she whistled.

“A massive chestnut Belgian draft horse appeared, pulling an old but well-maintained tractor.

” Meet Butterscotch,” Abigail said, patting the horse’s flank.

“She’s got more horsepower than your fancy car and twice the personality.

” Alexander watched, fascinated despite himself, as Abigail expertly unhitched the horse and attached a thick chain from the tractor to his car’s frame.

“Stand back,” she instructed, climbing into the driver’s seat.

With practice deficiency, she eased the tractor forward, pulling the Aston Martin from its muddy prison with surprisingly little effort.

Once the car was free, Alexander cleared his throat.

“I appreciate the assistance, Miss Jenkins.

” “Sure thing, Mr.

Moneybags,” she replied, jumping down from the tractor.

“That’ll be $500.

” “Excuse me.

” “Towing fee,” she said with a mischievous smile.

Premium rates for premium vehicles.

Alexander reached for his wallet, then paused.

You’re joking.

Am I? Her green eyes danced with challenge.

After a moment’s hesitation, he pulled out his platinum card.

Abigail burst into laughter.

I don’t take American Express, Mastercard, or Firstborn children, but I will take breakfast at Mabel’s Diner in town.

I’m starving, and you look like You could use some real food.

Alexander checked his watch.

His calendar was packed with calls to investors interested in the mineral rights to this very land.

But something about Abigail Jenkins made him reckless.

“Lead the way,” he said, gesturing to his now mud splattered but functional car.

Abigail shook her head.

“Oh no, we’re not taking that.

Around here, you either walk, ride, or drive a vehicle with proper clearance.

” She patted Butterscotch.

“Hop on.

You cannot be serious.

Deadly serious unless you’re scared.

20 minutes later, Alexander Blackwood, terror of Wall Street and crusher of corporations, found himself clinging to a saddle behind Abigail Jenkins.

Her auburn ponytail occasionally whipping him in the face as they trotted toward town.

“Relax your shoulders,” she called over her shoulder.

“You’re stiffer than my grandma’s Sunday corset.

” I assure you I’ve ridden before,” he replied through gritted teeth.

What he didn’t mention was that his experience was limited to perfectly groomed polo ponies on manicured English fields, not mammoth farm horses navigating ruted country roads.

“Sure you have,” she laughed, and then without warning spurred Butterscotch into a caner.

Alexander had no choice but to grab Abigail’s waist or fall off.

The feel of her solid, warm body against his was unexpectedly pleasant.

As they crested a hill, the small town of Willowbrook came into view.

It was like something from a nostalgic postcard, a main street lined with brick buildings, American flags fluttering in the morning breeze, and not a chain store in sight.

Welcome to civilization,” Abigail announced as they clumped down Main Street, drawing curious stares from locals.

They dismounted outside a cheerful diner with a neon sign proclaiming Mabel’s best pies in three counties.

Abigail tied butterscotch to a hitching post, an actual hitching post, and pushed open the door, triggering a little bell.

The conversations inside immediately hushed as Alexander followed her in.

He was accustomed to turning heads, but usually not while covered in mud and smelling faintly of horse.

Abby called a plump woman behind the counter.

Your usual.

Yes, please, Mabel.

And whatever my friend here wants, she emphasized.

Friend with enough irony to make several patrons.

Chuckle.

Alexander found himself ushered to a booth and handed a laminated menu offering items like Farmer’s Sunrise and lumberjack stack.

What exactly is a cattleman’s heart attack? He asked wearily.

Six eggs, half a pound of bacon, sausage gravy, hash browns, and biscuits, Abigail replied.

Named after old man Simmons, who ordered it every day for 30 years.

Is he still alive? Yep.

92 and still cusses like a sailor.

She grinned.

The secret is the biscuits.

When their food arrived, a reasonable omelette for Alexander and something involving an alarming amount of pancakes for Abigail.

She fixed him with a steady gaze.

So, Mr.

Blackwood, now that you’ve bought our land, what exactly do you plan to do with it? Turn it into a golf course, a factory for diamond encrusted toothpicks? Alexander dabbed his mouth with a paper napkin.

Actually, I intend to extract the rare earth minerals beneath the surface.

Your father’s property sits on one of the largest deposits outside of China.

Abigail’s fork clattered to her plate.

You’re going to mine our land.

It’s hardly productive as farmland, he pointed out.

The soil quality is poor.

The irrigation systems are ancient.

That land has been in my family for six generations, she interrupted, her voice quiet but intense.

My great greatgrandfather built that house with his bare hands after the Civil War.

My grandmother is buried under the willow tree by the pond.

For the first time, Alexander felt a twinge of something.

Uncomfortable.

Was it guilt? Impossible.

He hadn’t built his empire by being sentimental.

“Progress requires change, Miss Jenkins.

I’m offering your father a very generous relocation package.

Some things aren’t about money, she replied, pushing away her halfeaten breakfast.

But I wouldn’t expect you to understand that, would Before he could answer, the diner door burst open.

A disheveled older man with Abigail’s same green eyes rushed in.

Abby, there you are.

The bank just called.

They say they never received the last 6 months of mortgage payments.

They’re threatening foreclosure.

Alexander watched Abigail’s face drain of color.

That’s impossible, Daddy.

I’ve sent the payments myself every month.

As father and daughter discussed the financial crisis in hushed, urgent tones, Alexander found himself studying Harold Jenkins.

The man looked nothing like the shrewd, difficult negotiator he’d been dealing with through lawyers.

He seemed confused, vulnerable.

Something wasn’t adding up.

Alexander pulled out his phone and sent a quick text to his chief financial officer.

Pull all records on Jenkins property acquisition immediately.

When he looked up, Abigail was staring at him with undisguised suspicion.

“Problem with your empire, Mr.

Blackwood,” she asked coldly.

“No,” he replied slowly.

“But I think there might be a problem with yours.

” The challenge in her eyes was unmistakable.

For a man who lived for corporate battles and business warfare, Alexander was surprised to find that this confrontation in a small town diner with a mud splattered countrywoman felt more significant than any boardroom showdown he’d ever faced.

And for reasons he couldn’t explain, he desperately wanted to win.

Alexander’s temporary office in the Willowbrook Inns presidential suite, which was laughably basic by his standards, but apparently the height of luxury in this town, was now covered with papers.

His laptop displayed financial records while his team of remote analysts fed him information through his earpiece.

“Something isn’t right,” he muttered, tracing the money trail of the Jenkins property deal for the third time.

A knock at the door interrupted his concentration.

Room service, called a familiar voice that was definitely not hotel staff.

Alexander opened the door to find Abigail Jenkins holding a pie.

Don’t get excited, she said, pushing past him into the room.

This isn’t a peace offering.

Mabel makes me deliver these to new folks in town.

Tradition.

She stopped short at the sight of his makeshift investigation board.

What is all this? Alexander hesitated.

In the 24 hours since their breakfast, he’d discovered several troubling irregularities in the purchase of her family’s farm.

His instinct was to keep his cards close to his chest, a strategy that had served him well in business.

But something about Abigail’s direct gaze made him reconsider.

“I believe someone has been manipulating your father,” he said finally.

Abigail set down the pie and approached the documents wearily, as if they might bite.

What do you mean? The mortgage payments your father mentioned, they were made.

I’ve confirmed it, but they were redirected.

He pointed to a complex flowchart.

Someone created a shadow account that looked identical to your bank’s payment portal.

Abigail’s face pad.

Who would do that? My money’s on this man.

Alexander tapped a photograph.

Vernon Prescott, CEO of Prescott Mining.

Your father rejected his initial offer 6 months ago.

Vernon, Abigail looked shocked.

But he’s daddy’s oldest friend.

They play chess every Sunday after church.

The perfect cover, Alexander remarked coldly.

He gained your father’s trust, then exploited what appears to be the early stages.

Cognitive decline to manipulate him into missing payments and eventually selling to me instead.

Cognitive decline.

Abigail’s voice cracked.

What are you talking about? Alexander softened his tone.

Has your father been forgetful lately? Confused about details he used to track easily? Tears welled in Abigail’s eyes.

I thought he was just getting older.

He would misplace things, forget conversations.

She took a shaky breath.

But why would Vernon orchestrate selling to you instead of buying the land himself? Because I’m the villain in this narrative, Alexander explained.

If he acquired the land directly after engineering a financial crisis for your family, people might ask questions.

But if the heartless outside billionaire swoops in, he shrugged.

Everyone has someone to blame while Prescott quietly approaches me afterward with a generous offer to save the local landmark from development.

Abigail sank into a chair, processing this betrayal.

So, you’re telling me that Vernon manipulated my cognitively impaired father into missing mortgage payments, created a financial emergency, then steered him to sell to you, all so he could play the hero by buying it from you later.

Precisely, and I fell for it.

Alexander couldn’t remember the last time he’d been outmaneuvered.

Prescott knew about the minerals, but needed to acquire the land discreetly to avoid driving up the price.

Using me as the middleman was clever.

So what now? You still own our farm.

Are you going to sell it to him? Alexander studied her.

The afternoon sun through the window caught her auburn hair, creating a halo effect that was oddly fitting for a woman who had managed to make him question his entire approach to business in less than 2 days.

That depends, he said carefully.

On what? On whether you’ll help me expose Prescott and find a more equitable solution.

Abigail narrowed her eyes.

Why would you want to help us? This is business.

Isn’t this how you made your billions? Exploiting opportunities.

Alexander surprised himself with his answer.

I exploit market inefficiencies and corporate weaknesses.

I don’t manipulate vulnerable old men with memory problems.

He paused.

Contrary to popular belief, Miss Jenkins, even sharks have standards.

A hint of a smile touched Abigail’s lips.

“So, the big bad wolf has a conscience after all.

Don’t get carried away,” he warned, though without much conviction.

“My reputation is also at stake.

I won’t be known as Vernon Prescott’s puppet.

” Abigail stood and began pacing, her practical boots leaving tiny mudprints on the hotel’s carpet.

Something that would have infuriated Alexander days ago, but now seemed strangely endearing.

We’ll need evidence, she said, thinking aloud.

Vernon keeps all his business documents in his home office.

He’s hosting his annual Fourth of July barbecue tomorrow.

Everyone in town will be there.

Including us? Alexander raised an eyebrow.

Including us, she confirmed.

I hope you own something other than bespoke suits, Mr.

Blackwood.

We’re going to a country barbecue.

The following afternoon found Alexander in the most casual clothes he owned.

Dark jeans that had cost more than most people’s monthly rent and a light blue button-d down with the sleeves rolled up.

He felt naked without a tie.

“You look almost human,” Abigail commented when she picked him up in her ancient pickup truck.

She was wearing a sundress patterned with sunflowers, her hair loose around her shoulders for the first time since he’d met her.

The transformation was striking.

“And you look,” he searched for a word that wouldn’t reveal too much.

“Different, different good or different bad?” she challenged.

“Just different,” he replied.

Though the warmth in his eyes betrayed him, Prescott’s estate was impressive even by Alexander’s standards.

a sprawling ranch house with manicured grounds overlooking the valley.

Dozens of locals milled about drinking lemonade and beer while children ran through sprinklers.

“Vernon certainly lives well for a small town businessman,” Alexander observed.

“He owns half the businesses in the county,” Abigail explained.

But no one questions it because he’s always been generous, sponsors the little league, donated the new wing to the hospital.

Her expression darkened.

I guess we know where the money for his philanthropy comes from.

Their arrival created a stir.

Locals gathered around to inspect the infamous billionaire who’ bought the Jenkins farm.

Some openly hostile, others merely curious.

“Be nice,” Abigail whispered.

These are my people.

I’m always nice,” Alexander replied with a smile that had charmed royalty and business leaders alike.

To his surprise, it worked on the town’s people, too.

Within an hour, he was flipping burgers with the volunteer firefighters and discussing cattle futures with local ranchers.

He caught Abigail watching him with undisguised amazement as he chatted with an elderly woman about her prize-winning tomatoes.

I didn’t know billionaires could be so personable,” she said when he brought her a plate of potato salad.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Miss Jenkins.

” Their eyes met, and for a moment, the crowded barbecue seemed to fade away.

Then, a booming voice broke the spell.

“There she’s the prettiest farmer in three counties.

” Vernon Prescott, red-faced and jovial, wrapped Abigail in a bear hug.

“And you must be Blackwood.

heard you bought old Harold’s place.

Smart move.

Alexander shook the man’s meaty hand, concealing his disgust.

Mr.

Prescott, I’ve heard a great deal about you.

All good, I hope.

Prescott laughed, slapping Alexander’s back hard enough to make him stumble.

Listen, we should talk business sometime.

I might be interested in that property if you’re looking to flip it.

What a coincidence, Alexander replied smoothly.

I was hoping to see your collection of local historical documents.

Abigail tells me you’re something of an expert on Willowbrook Valley.

Prescott’s smile didn’t waver, but Alexander noted the calculation in his eyes.

Sure, sure.

My office is just inside.

Why don’t we Vernon? A group of town officials waved him over.

The mayor wants to discuss the new highway proposal.

Prescott looked torn, but political obligations won out.

Duty calls.

Tell you what, make yourselves at home.

Office is first door on the right down the main hall.

Just don’t touch my cigars.

He winked and walked away.

That was almost too easy, Abigail whispered.

Never underestimate the power of calculated social pressure, Alexander murmured.

Now laugh like I’ve said something charming and we’ll make our way inside.

Abigail’s laugh, genuine and melodious, sent an unexpected warmth through his chest.

They strolled casually toward the house, nodding to guests as they went.

Once inside the mercifully empty hallway, Alexander’s expression turned serious.

“We have 10 minutes maximum.

You keep watch while I find the documents.

” “No way,” Abigail protested.

“This is my family’s farm we’re talking about.

I’m coming with you.

” Before Alexander could argue, she pushed open the office door and slipped inside.

Sighing, he followed, gently closing the door behind them.

Prescott’s office was a shrine to his own importance.

Walls covered with photographs of him shaking hands with politicians and local celebrities.

Shelves displaying hunting trophies and business awards.

Start with the filing cabinet, Abigail suggested, already moving toward a large oak desk.

They worked intense silence, rifling through folders and drawers.

Alexander was methodically photographing documents with his phone when Abigail gasped.

“Alexander,” she whispered, using his first name for the first time.

“Look at this.

” She held up a folder labeled Jenkins Acquisition.

Inside were emails between Prescott and someone named Leonardo Dilva at a company called Global Solutions.

That’s my father’s financial adviser, Abigail said, her voice shaking.

Daddy hired him last year on Vernon’s recommendation.

Alexander scanned the emails quickly, his jaw tightening.

Dilva was working for Prescott the entire time.

They engineered everything, the diverted payments, the foreclosure threats, even my purchase offer.

They specifically targeted me because of my reputation for aggressive acquisitions.

Those snakes, Abigail hissed, tears of anger in her eyes.

The sound of voices in the hallway froze them both.

Prescott’s coming back.

Alexander whispered, “Take what we need.

” And the door handle turned.

In a split second, Alexander made a decision that would have shocked his board of directors and business rivals alike.

He pulled Abigail into his arms and kissed her.

Her surprise lasted only a moment before she understood his plan and wrapped her arms around his neck, deepening the kiss just as Vernon Prescott walked in.

“Well, well,” Prescott chuckled.

“Sorry to interrupt, loveirds.

Just needed to grab my special bourbon for the mayor.

” Alexander reluctantly broke the kiss, keeping an arm possessively around Abigail’s waist.

“My apologies, Mr.

Prescott.

I was just showing Miss Jenkins your impressive office and we got distracted.

Abigail blushed convincingly, the folder of evidence now hidden in the folds of her sundress.

No harm done.

Prescott grabbed a bottle from a cabinet and winked.

The Jenkins women always did have good taste.

He left, closing the door behind him.

Alexander and Abigail remained frozen in their embrace, hearts racing from both the close call and the unexpected intensity of their kiss.

That was Alexander began.

A brilliant tactical decision.

Abigail finished quickly, stepping out of his arms.

But her flushed cheeks and slightly dazed expression told a different story.

As they slipped out of the office with their evidence, Alexander found himself touching his lips, wondering how a simple diversionary tactic had left him, more shaken than any multi-billion dollar negotiation ever had.

We have enough evidence to bury Prescott 10 times over, Alexander declared, spreading the documents across the coffee table in Abigail’s kitchen.

The Jenkins farmhouse was nothing like he’d imagined.

Instead of the dilapidated structure he’d expected based on property valuations, it was a charming, well-maintained home filled with handcrafted furniture and family heirlooms.

Every surface told a story, from the height markers etched into the door frame to the collection of blue ribbons from county fairs pinned to a corkboard.

“So why do you look like someone stole your favorite tractor?” he asked, noting Abigail’s troubled expression as she placed a mug of coffee in front of him.

“Because evidence isn’t enough,” she replied, settling into an armchair across from him.

She’d changed back into her usual attire, worn jeans and a chambre shirt.

But Alexander couldn’t stop remembering how she’d looked in that sunflower dress, or how she’d felt in his arms.

“What do you mean?” he asked, forcing his mind back to business.

“These documents clearly prove fraud, elder exploitation, and conspiracy.

” “And who would prosecute that case? The county prosecutor plays golf with Vernon every Wednesday.

The sheriff’s department got new cruisers last year, courtesy of a generous donation from Guess Who? She took a sip of coffee.

In small towns, Mr.

Blackwood, justice isn’t about what’s true.

It’s about who you know.

Alexander frowned.

Such corruption wouldn’t be tolerated in his world of high finance, where everything was documented, regulated, and scrutinized.

Then again, perhaps that’s precisely why men like Prescott operated in places like Willowbrook.

Then we bypass the local authorities, he suggested.

I have connections with with people who care even less about one small farm in the middle of nowhere, Abigail interrupted.

Be realistic, Alexander.

By the time any outside investigation gained traction, Vernon would have covered his tracks and turned the whole town against us.

Alexander was surprised by her use of us, but even more surprised by how right it felt.

“Then what do you suggest?” he asked.

A slow smile spread across Abigail’s face.

“I suggest we give Vernon exactly what he wants.

” “Which is you?” Her green eyes sparkled with mischief.

Specifically, you offering to sell him my family’s land at a significant profit.

Alexander leaned forward, intrigued.

“And why would I do that?” “Because you’ve fallen madly in love with the Jenkins family’s stubborn daughter and want to make her happy,” she replied with exaggerated sweetness.

“It’s the perfect cover story.

The cold-hearted billionaire melted by country charm.

People love that narrative.

Just look at every Hallmark movie ever made.

” Alexander nearly choked on his coffee.

You want us to pretend to be? He couldn’t even say it.

A couple.

Abigail finished for him.

It’s not that outrageous.

Half the town already thinks something’s going on after our little display at the barbecue.

Her cheeks colored slightly at the memory.

That was a diversionary tactic, Alexander said quickly.

Of course it was, she agreed a little too emphatically.

And this would be strategic deception.

Alexander studied her.

This farm girl was proving to be a more formidable strategist than most of his Harvard educated executives.

And once Prescott believes our relationship, what exactly is your plan? Abigail set down her mug with determination.

We convince Vernon that you’re willing to sell him the land as a romantic gesture to me, but only if he invests in your new green mining initiative that will extract the minerals without destroying the farm.

There’s no such thing as green mining, Alexander pointed out.

He doesn’t know that, Abigail countered.

He just needs to believe it’s some cuttingedge technology that only Blackwood Industries possesses.

He’ll sign anything if he thinks he’s getting this land.

And when he discovers there is no green mining technology, by then we’ll have recordings of him admitting to the fraud against my father.

If he tries anything, those recordings go public.

She shrugged.

Mutually assured destruction.

Alexander couldn’t help but be impressed.

Miss Jenkins, you would have made an excellent corporate raider.

I’ll take that as the insult it is, she replied.

But her smile softened the words.

So, are you in? He should say no.

This plan was messy, unprofessional, and fraught with personal complications.

The smart business move would be to sell to Prescott at a markup and walk away.

But the thought of walking away from Abigail Jenkins was suddenly inexplicably unbearable.

“I’m in,” he said.

“But if we’re going to convince anyone we’re a couple, you should probably start calling me Alexander instead of Mr.

Blackwood or hey you.

” Fine, Alexander.

The way she said his name sent an unexpected current down his spine.

And you should call me Abby.

Only my enemies in the bank call me Abigail.

Noted Abby.

He tested the nickname, finding it suited her.

So when do we begin this charade? Tonight, she replied.

The Founders Day Festival starts at sunset.

The whole town will be there, including Vernon.

And what exactly does this festival entail? Alexander asked wearily.

Aby’s grin was equal parts delightful and terrifying.

Hope you can dance, city boy.

6 hours later, Alexander Blackwood found himself in the middle of the Willowbrook town square, surrounded by twinkling lights, the smell of funnel cakes, and the sound of a surprisingly good country band.

He’d never felt more out of place in his $300 designer jeans and casual linen shirt that his stylist had insisted was relaxed weekend wear.

“You look like you’re waiting for a root canal,” Abby remarked, appearing beside him with two plastic cups of lemonade.

She’d changed again, this time into a simple blue dress that made her eyes look even greener.

Try to look like you’re having fun, or at least like you don’t wish you were negotiating a hostile takeover instead.

“I’m perfectly capable of appearing enjoyable,” he protested, accepting the lemonade.

“Then prove it,” she challenged, taking his hand and pulling him toward the dance floor where couples were two stepping to an upbeat melody.

“I don’t know this dance,” he admitted as she positioned his hands, one at her waist, the other clasping hers.

It’s easy, she assured him.

Quick, quick, slow, slow.

Just follow my lead.

Alexander Blackwood, who had never followed anyone’s lead in his adult life, found himself stepping in time with Abby Jenkins under the stars.

After a few stumbles and one near collision with the mayor and his wife, he began to get the hang of.

So, not bad for a city slicker, Abby conceded as he successfully twirled her.

You sound surprised, he replied, pulling her slightly closer than strictly necessary for the dance.

I am, she admitted.

I figured your idea of dancing was writing checks at charity gallas.

I contain multitudes, Abby Jenkins.

The music slowed, and instinctively they adjusted their steps, moving together with surprising synchronicity.

Across the square, Vernon Prescott watched them with narrowed eyes, whispering to the town councilman beside him.

“We have an audience,” Alexander murmured in Aby’s ear, his breath warm against her skin.

“Good,” she whispered back.

“Time to sell our story.

” “With that,” she reached up and brushed a lock of hair from his forehead, letting her hand linger on his cheek in a gesture so tender that something shifted in Alexander’s chest.

Alexander knew performative affection.

He escorted dozens of socialites and models to events over the years, all for strategic purposes.

This should be no different.

Yet, when Abby looked up at him with those clear green eyes reflecting the festival lights, strategy was the last thing on his mind.

As the song ended, he made a split-second decision and dipped her dramatically, earning applause from nearby dancers.

When he pulled her back up, their faces were inches apart, and for a moment, he thought he might kiss her again, this time with no excuse of diversion.

The spell was broken by a booming voice.

“Well, look at you two love birds,” Vernon Prescott had materialized beside them, his expensive western shirt straining across his substantial belly.

“The whole town’s talking about Willowbrook’s newest power couple.

” Alexander smoothly shifted to wrap an arm around Aby’s waist.

Mr.

Prescott, enjoying the festival.

Always do.

Been coming to Founders Day since I was knee high to a grasshopper.

Prescott’s joviality couldn’t mask the calculation in his eyes.

Quite a surprise seeing you here, Blackwood.

Didn’t figure you for the small town festival type.

Aby’s been showing me the appeal of country living.

Alexander replied, giving her a fond look that wasn’t entirely forced.

Has she now? Prescott chuckled.

And what about your plans for the Jenkins property? Still planning that mining operation I heard about.

Alexander felt Abby tense beside him.

This was the opening they needed.

Actually, he said casually, I’m reconsidering my options.

Mining has its place, but there might be more sustainable approaches worth exploring.

Prescott’s eyebrows shot up.

Is that right? Well, if you’re looking to offload that property, I might be interested.

As a favor to Aby’s family, of course.

How thoughtful, Abby said with a sweetness that Alexander now recognized as dangerous.

We should discuss it sometime, Vernon.

Alexander’s developed this fascinating new technology that extracts minerals without disturbing the surface land.

Proprietary technology, Alexander added, still in development, but the early results are promising.

Is that a fact? Prescott’s eyes gleamed with naked greed.

Why don’t you both come by my office tomorrow, say 10:00 a.

m.

? We could discuss possibilities.

We’ll be there, Abby confirmed.

As Prescott walked away, Alexander bent to whisper in her ear.

Nicely done, he took the bait.

Of course he did, she replied.

Vernon never met a scheme he didn’t like.

She turned in his arms to face him.

But we have a problem.

What’s that? If we’re going to sell this relationship, we need to be more convincing.

Her eyes darted around the festival.

Everyone’s watching.

Us, including Mrs.

Caldwell, the town gossip.

By tomorrow morning, she’ll have told the whole county whether she thinks we’re faking it.

Alexander frowned.

What do you suggest? Abby bit her lip, an oddly vulnerable gesture from a woman who had shown nothing but backbone since he’d met her.

Kiss me here now.

Yes, she said firmly.

Make it look real.

For a man who prided himself on quick decision-making, Alexander took an uncharacteristically long moment to respond.

If he kissed her now without the excuse of diversion or necessity, something would change between them.

Some line would be crossed.

“If you’re not comfortable,” Abby began, misinterpreting his hesitation.

He cut her off the only way that seemed right, by cupping her face in his hands and kissing her with none of the calculation of their first kiss, but all of the intensity.

Her surprise lasted only a second before she was kissing him back.

Her arms sliding around his neck as naturally, as if they’d done this a 100 times before.

The festival, the music, the onlookers, everything disappeared.

There was only Abby.

The taste of lemonade on her lips and the disorienting realization that he, Alexander Blackwood, master of leveraged buyouts and corporate restructuring, was utterly out of his depth.

When they finally broke apart, Abby looked as shaken as he.

“Loulet should convince Mrs.

Caldwell,” she said, her voice slightly breathless.

“Among others,” he agreed, not entirely sure who he was trying to convince anymore.

As they walked hand in hand through the festival, stopping to chat with locals who seemed genuinely delighted by their apparent romance, Alexander found himself relaxing into a role that was beginning to feel less and less like pretend.

Later, as fireworks exploded overhead and Abby leaned against his shoulder, her hair smelling of sunshine and apple shampoo, Alexander realized with startling clarity, that he was in serious danger of losing more than just a business deal in Willowbrook Valley.

He was in danger of losing his heart.

“Remember,” Abby whispered as they approached Prescott’s office building.

“We need him to explicitly admit to manipulating my father and diverting the mortgage payments.

Alexander nodded, adjusting his tie.

He’d reverted to his corporate armor.

Today, a charcoal suit that cost more than most cars, and Abby couldn’t help but notice how it transformed him.

Gone was the man who had danced with her under the stars.

In his place stood Alexander Blackwood, business titan, his expression as impenetrable as a vault.

And you remember, he murmured, his hand resting at the small of her back as they entered the elevator.

To follow my lead when we discussed the terms of the sale.

Prescott knows business.

He’ll be suspicious if the numbers don’t make sense.

I ran my family’s farm account since I was 18.

Abby reminded him.

I know how to read a balance sheet.

Alexander’s surprise was evident.

You never mentioned that.

You never asked,” she replied simply as the elevator doors opened.

Prescott’s receptionist, a heavily madeup woman who introduced herself as Crystal, led them to a conference room with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the town.

Vernon was already waiting, beaming like a wolf that had spotted an injured gir.

There they are.

He rose, pumping Alexander’s hand enthusiastically before pulling Abby into an unwelcome hug.

Willowbrook’s most unlikely couple.

Still can’t believe you tamed our little firecracker, Blackwood.

Abby forced a smile, suppressing the urge to step on his foot with her boot heel.

Vernon, always a pleasure.

Alexander smoothly pulled out her chair before taking his own seat.

The gesture was practiced, something he’d likely done at countless business dinners.

But the brief squeeze he gave her shoulder felt distinctly personal.

I appreciate you meeting with us, Mr.

Prescott.

Alexander began his tone all business.

As I mentioned yesterday, I’m reconsidering my plans for the Jenkins property.

Call me Vernon, please.

Prescott leaned back, the picture of casual confidence, and I’m all ears, always happy to help preserve local heritage.

How noble of, Abby muttered, earning a warning glance from Alexander.

I’ve developed a proprietary extraction method,” Alexander continued smoothly, opening his laptop to display a series of impressive looking but completely fabricated schematics.

“It allows access to the mineral deposits without disturbing them.

Surface structures.

” Prescott leaned forward, greed evident in his narrowed eyes.

“And the yield, comparable to traditional methods,” Alexander lied effortlessly.

The difference is in the environmental impact and public relations value.

Eco-friendly mining is the future, Vernon.

And costly, I imagine, Prescott probed.

Initially, Alexander acknowledged, which is why I’m seeking an investment partner rather than simply selling the land outright.

Prescott’s smile faltered.

Investment partner? I was under the pressure you might be looking to sell given your new priorities.

He glanced meaningfully at Abby.

Alexander reached for her hand, his thumb tracing small circles on her skin.

The gesture was for show, Abby reminded herself, even as it sent warmth spreading up her arm.

Abby has helped me see the value in preserving the Jenkins homestead, Alexander said, his voice softening convincingly.

But I’m still a businessman.

The mineral rights are too valuable to ignore.

So what exactly are you proposing? Prescott asked, weariness creeping into his tone.

Alexander slid a document across the table.

A joint venture.

You invest in my green mining technology, we extract the minerals together, and the Jenkins family retains ownership of the surface property.

Prescott frowned.

That’s not what we He caught himself.

That’s not what I expected.

It’s a win-win, Alexander pressed.

You get the minerals without the negative publicity of destroying a historic family farm.

I get funding for my technology.

Abby gets to keep her home.

And if I’m only interested in an outright purchase, Prescott countered.

Alexander shrugged.

Then I’d have to decline.

The technology is the key asset here, not just the land.

Abby watched the internal calculation play out on Prescott’s face.

He wanted the minerals, but he’d expected to manipulate Alexander into selling him the entire property cheaply.

Maybe we should discuss this privately, Blackwood, Prescott suggested.

Business to business.

Anything you say to me, you can say in front of Abby, Alexander replied firmly.

She’s my partner in this venture.

The word partner hung in the air.

Its meaning deliberately ambiguous.

Fine, Prescott said tightly.

Then let me be direct.

The technology is interesting, but I need assurances.

How do I know it works? A demonstration can be arranged, Alexander replied.

Once the investment agreements are signed, Prescott drumed, his fingers on the table.

And what about the foreclosure situation with Old Harold? Last I heard, he was having financial difficulties.

His smirk made Aby’s blood boil.

How exactly would you know about my father’s mortgage payments? Vernon, she asked, injecting just the right amount of innocent confusion into her voice.

Prescott’s smirk faltered.

Well, news travels in a small town.

Especially when you’re the one spreading it, she replied sweetly.

Alexander squeezed her hand in warning before addressing Prescott.

Actually, that’s an interesting point.

In my due diligence, I discovered some irregularities with those payments.

They were made on time, but seemed to have been redirected.

Prescott’s complexion pad slightly beneath his perpetual tan.

Banking errors happen.

Six identical errors in six consecutive months.

Alexander raised an eyebrow.

That would be quite a coincidence.

What are you implying? Prescott’s voice had hardened.

I’m not implying anything,” Alexander replied calmly.

“I’m simply stating facts.

Facts that my financial forensics team is currently investigating.

” “Your team?” Prescott scoffed.

But there was new tension in his shoulders.

“Since when does Alexander Blackwood care about one mortgage in the middle of nowhere?” “Since someone tried to manipulate me into being their fall guy,” Alexander replied, his voice dangerously soft.

Don’t appreciate being used, Vernon.

The atmosphere in the room shifted perceptibly.

Prescott’s jovial facade had completely evaporated, replaced by the calculating businessman beneath.

I think there’s been a misunderstanding, he said carefully.

I had nothing to do with old Harold’s financial troubles.

Really? Abby interjected.

So, you didn’t recommend Leonardo Dilva as his financial adviser? The same Dilva who works for your shell company, Global Solutions? Prescott’s eyes darted between them.

You’ve been busy.

We have Alexander confirmed.

We have emails, bank records, and a very interesting recording of Mr.

Dilva explaining how you orchestrated the entire scheme.

This was a bluff.

They had no such recording.

But Prescott didn’t know that.

Those documents could be interpreted many ways, Prescott said, his voice steady despite the sweat beating on his forehead.

I wonder how the district attorney would interpret them, Abby mused.

Or the state banking commission.

Prescott stood abruptly, his chair rolling backward.

This meeting is over.

I don’t respond to threats.

Not threats, Alexander corrected, remaining seated.

Negotiation terms.

What do you want? Prescott hissed.

Alexander closed his laptop.

It’s simple.

You sign a new agreement returning full ownership of the Jenkins property to Harold with compensation for the emotional distress caused by your fraudulent actions.

In exchange, we don’t publicize your scheme.

That’s extortion.

No.

Alexander smiled thinly.

It’s justice with a generous confidentiality clause.

Prescott paced the room, his face contorted with anger.

This is absurd.

I’m not admitting to anything.

Fine, Abby shrugged, standing.

We’ll take our evidence elsewhere.

I’m sure the FBI would be interested in financial fraud crossing state lines.

Wait, Prescott said, his voice suddenly less certain.

Let’s not be hasty, Alexander produced another document from his briefcase.

The terms are outlined here.

Your lawyer can review them, but I wouldn’t delay.

The offer expires in 24 hours.

Prescott stared at the document as if it might bite him.

And if I sign, the evidence stays private, Alexander confirmed.

You make restitution to the Jenkins family, and we all move forward.

And the minerals, Prescott asked, unable to hide his greed even now.

We’ll be extracted by a legitimate company using legitimate means, Alexander replied.

You’re welcome to bid for the contract after the appropriate regulatory approvals.

Prescott’s shoulders sagged in defeat.

You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you? That’s why I’m worth billions, Alexander replied without a trace of modesty.

As they left the building 30 minutes later with Prescott’s signature on the agreement, Abby couldn’t contain her excitement.

She flung her arms around Alexander’s neck, laughing as he lifted her off her feet in a momentary celebration.

“We did it,” she exclaimed as he set her down.

“I can’t believe it worked.

” “Did you doubt it would?” Alexander asked, his hands lingering at her waist.

“Honestly, yes,” she admitted.

“I half expected him to have us thrown out or call our bluff.

Criminals like Prescott are ultimately cowards,” Alexander observed.

They fold when confronted directly.

It’s an axiom I’ve proven repeatedly in business.

Abby studied him.

A new question forming.

You’ve done this before, haven’t you? Exposed corruption.

I mean, Alexander adjusted his cuffs, suddenly avoiding her gaze.

I’ve had occasion to address certain unethical business practices.

You’re not just a corporate raider, are you? she pressed, fascinated by this glimpse of complexity beyond his billionaire facade.

“My reputation serves a purpose,” he said simply.

“It opens doors that would otherwise remain closed.

” Before she could probe further, his phone rang.

The special tone he’d set for his executive team.

“Blackwood,” he answered crisply, walking a few steps away for privacy.

Abby watched him, noting how his posture changed, becoming more rigid.

his free hand moving as he issued directives to someone on the other end.

In that moment, she saw clearly the division between the Alexander who had danced with her and the Blackwood who commanded a global empire.

When he returned, his expression was unreadable.

“There’s a situation at headquarters requiring my attention.

My jet is being prepared as we speak.

” “You’re leaving,” Abby said, trying to mask her disappointment.

She had known this day would come.

Alexander Blackwood didn’t belong in Willowbrook, but she hadn’t expected it so soon.

I have to, he confirmed.

But there’s still the matter of your family’s property.

What about it? Alexander reached into his pocket and produced an envelope.

Inside, you’ll find the deed to the farm returned to your father’s name along with documentation voiding my purchase.

Abby stared at the envelope.

Just like that, you’re giving it back.

It was never mine to take,” he said quietly.

The sale was predicated on fraud.

This just corrects an error.

The gesture was so unexpected, so contrary to everything she’d assumed about him, that Abby found herself speechless.

“My driver, we’ll take you home,” Alexander continued, glancing at his watch.

“I need to pack before.

” Abby didn’t let him finish.

Acting on impulse, she stepped forward and kissed him.

Not for show, not for strategy, but because she suddenly couldn’t bear the thought of him leaving without knowing how she felt.

The kiss was brief but undeniably real.

When she pulled away, Alexander looked as stunned as she felt.

“What was that for?” he asked, his composure finally cracking.

“For being nothing like I expected,” she replied honestly.

“And for helping me save my home?” Something flickered in his eyes.

regret perhaps or longing, but his phone buzzed again, breaking the moment.

I have to go, he said, his voice rougher than usual.

Abby nodded, stepping back.

Of course, you have an empire to run.

Abby, I he started, then stopped, apparently thinking better of whatever he’d been about to say.

Instead, he simply squeezed her hand.

Take care of yourself.

As his sleek black car pulled away, Abby stood on the sidewalk clutching the envelope containing her family’s salvation, wondering why victory felt so hollow.

Back at the farmhouse, she found her father on the porch swing looking more lucid than he had in weeks.

“There you are, Ladybug,” he said, using his old nickname for her.

“Been wondering when you’d be back.

” Abby sat beside him, placing the envelope in his weathered hands.

“It’s over, Daddy.

Vernon can’t hurt us anymore.

The farm is yours again.

Free and clear.

” Harold opened the envelope with trembling fingers, scanning the documents with tearful eyes.

“That young man, Blackwood, he did this?” “Yes,” Abby confirmed, her throat tight with emotion.

And he’s gone now, I expect, Harold observed, his eyes knowing.

Yes, she repeated, unable to elaborate.

Harold patted her knee.

Some people are like comets, Ladybug.

They blaze through your life, bright and beautiful, then continue on their path.

I know, Daddy, but sometimes, he continued, his voice wistful.

Sometimes they circle back around.

Abby rested her head on her father’s shoulder, watching the sunset paint the fields gold.

In her pocket, her phone remained silent.

No calls, no texts.

Alexander Blackwood had returned to his world and she to hers.

Yet, as night fell over Willowbrook Valley, Abby couldn’t shake the feeling that their story wasn’t finished, that somehow their orbits would align again.

Two weeks passed in Willowbrook without a word from Alexander.

Abby threw herself into farm work, rising before dawn to tend the chickens, repair fences, and plant the late summer vegetables.

At night, she fell into exhausted sleep, trying not to dream of charcoal suits and British accents.

“You’re working yourself to death, Ladybug,” her father observed one evening as she trudged in after sunset, muddy and bone tired.

“Farmm doesn’t run itself,” she replied, kicking off her boots.

Harold Jenkins set aside his newspaper, the business section, which he’d never shown interest in before.

There’s working, and then there’s hiding.

Abby paused at the sink where she was washing dirt from beneath her fingernails.

I’m not hiding.

Then why do you jump every time your phone rings? Why are you checking the driveway whenever a car passes? I don’t know what you’re talking about, she said.

But the flush creeping up her neck betrayed her.

Her father’s eyes were kind but knowing.

You miss him.

Abby dried her hands on a dish towel buying time before answering.

It doesn’t matter if I do.

He’s gone back to his world of private jets and corporate takeovers.

Is he happy there? The question caught her off guard.

I don’t know.

I never asked.

Harold nodded as if she’d confirmed something.

Funny thing about happiness.

Most folks spend their lives chasing what they think will make them happy without ever asking themselves what actually does.

Abby sank into a chair opposite him.

When did you get so philosophical? When your memory starts playing tricks.

Spend a lot of time thinking about what matters.

Harold reached across the table to pat her hand.

That young man looked at you the way I used to look at your mother.

He was playing a part, Daddy.

We both were.

Maybe at first, Harold, conceded, but I’ve been around long enough to know when something’s real.

Before Abby could argue further, her phone rang.

She snatched it up, heart hammering, but the caller ID showed Mabel’s Diner.

Abby, thank goodness I caught you.

Mabel’s breathless voice came through.

I need an emergency pie delivery.

The governor’s stopping by on his way to the cap and my delivery boy just called in sick.

20 minutes later, Abby was driving into town with six fresh pies carefully arranged in the back of her pickup.

As she parked behind Mabel’s diner, she noticed an unusual number of cars for a Tuesday night, including several black SUVs with government plates.

Inside, the diner was buzzing with activity.

Mabel, flushed with excitement, directed her to bring the pies to the kitchen.

They just arrived, she whispered eyes wide.

The governor and all his people plus some big shot businessman from New York.

Abby nearly dropped the pies.

Businessman? What businessman? Mabel shrugged.

Tall fellow, fancy suit, British accent.

Never caught his name.

The pie boxes slipped from Aby’s suddenly numb fingers, landing with a soft thud on the counter.

She pushed through the swinging kitchen doors into the main dining area, scanning the crowd.

And there he was, Alexander Blackwood, immaculate in a navy suit, engaged in conversation with the governor and several officials.

He looked exactly as she remembered, confident, commanding, impossibly handsome, yet somehow different.

There was a tension in his shoulders.

She recognized a slight tightness around his eyes.

As if sensing her presence, he looked up.

For a breathless moment, their eyes locked across the crowded diner.

His expression shifted from surprise to something softer, more vulnerable than she’d ever seen on his face.

Then Mabel was beside her, frantically whispering, “Those pies need to be plated, Abby.

The governor’s waiting.

” Abby retreated to the kitchen on shaky legs.

What was Alexander doing here? And with the governor, no less.

Her mind raced as she mechanically transferred pies to serving plates.

When she emerged again, balancing a tray of pie slices, Alexander was nowhere to be seen.

Disappointment crashed over her so intensely she nearly stumbled.

“Miss Jenkins.

” The voice behind her sent a current down her spine.

She turned slowly, Trey, still in hand to find Alexander standing there.

Mr.

Blackwood, she managed, proud that her voice remained steady.

Back in Willowbrook so soon? No decent coffee in New York? A smile tugged at his lips.

The coffee is adequate.

The company, however, is lacking.

Before she could respond, Mabel whisked the tray from her hands.

I’ll take those, honey.

You two clearly have catching up to do.

Left without her shield, Abby crossed her arms.

So the governor, a necessary meeting, Alexander explained.

We are discussing the establishment of a sustainable mining initiative in Willowbrook Valley.

Sustainable mining? Aby’s eyes widened.

But that was just a ruse to trap Prescott.

Was it? Alexander gestured to an empty booth.

May I have 5 minutes of your time? Abby hesitated, then slid into the booth, acutely aware of the curious stairs from the diner’s other patrons.

Alexander sat opposite her, close enough that she could smell his expensive cologne.

“After our confrontation with Prescott,” he began, “I had my research team look deeper into mineral extraction methods.

They discovered a technique being developed in Finland that significantly reduces environmental impact.

” and you suddenly care about environmental impact.

Abby couldn’t keep the skepticism from her voice.

I care about innovation, Alexander corrected.

And about investment opportunities that happen to align with preserving certain local interests.

Aby’s heart skipped.

Local interests.

Alexander’s gaze was steady, intense.

I’ve spent two weeks in boardrooms and pen houses discussing quarterly projections and market strategies, and all I could think about was a stubborn farmer with grass green eyes who dances better than she gives directions.

Aby’s breath caught.

Alexander, I’ve acquired a small property on the edge of town, he continued as if afraid to lose momentum.

Nothing elaborate, just a cottage with a decent view of the valley.

My team can manage most operations remotely, but certain aspects will require my presence here regularly.

You’re moving to Willowbrook? Abby couldn’t hide her astonishment.

Part-time, he clarified.

I’ll still need to be in New York and London periodically.

But I find I’m increasingly drawn to rural investment opportunities.

Abby fought the smile threatening to overtake her face.

Is that what I am? a rural investment opportunity.

For the first time since she’d known him, Alexander Blackwood looked uncertain.

No, Abby.

You’re the reason I haven’t slept properly.

2 weeks.

You’re the reason my executive team thinks I’ve lost my mind.

Establishing a research facility in a town most of them can’t locate on a map.

He reached across the table, his fingers brushing hers.

You’re the reason I’m here.

The simple honesty of his words stole Aby’s breath.

This wasn’t the calculated charm of a businessman or the practiced lines of a player.

This was Alexander, stripped of pretense, vulnerable in a way she’d never expected to see.

“I thought we were just playing parts,” she said softly.

“Pretending.

” “So did I,” he admitted until I got on that plane and realized I’d left something essential behind.

Your common sense, she suggested, though her teasing tone couldn’t disguise the emotion behind her words.

My heart, Alexander replied simply.

Outside the diner windows, rain began to fall.

A gentle summer shower that pattered against the glass.

The governor and his entourage prepared to leave, nodding respectfully to Alexander as they passed.

The moment stretched between them, full of possibility.

I’m not asking for anything, Alexander clarified.

I just wanted you to know why I’m here.

The partnership with the governor is legitimate.

We are establishing a research center that will create jobs and develop sustainable mining practices, but the location, he smiled rofully.

That was entirely personal.

Abby studied him.

this man who had crashed into her life like a comet and somehow transformed from adversary to ally to something she hadn’t dared name.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” she asked finally.

Alexander blinked clearly not expecting this response.

“I have a video conference at 9:00, then cancel it,” Abby interrupted all of it.

“Why?” she grinned, feeling lighter than she had in weeks.

Because if you’re going to be a part-time resident of Willowbrook, you need to learn how to properly mend a chicken coupe and how to ride a horse without looking terrified.

And maybe if you’re very lucky, I’ll teach you my grandmother’s biscuit recipe.

Alexander’s answering smile was brighter than she’d ever seen it.

Unguarded genuine joy that transformed his handsome face into something breathtaking.

Miss Jenkins,” he said, reaching for her hand across the table.

“Are you asking me on a date?” “I’m asking you to get muddy and probably embarrass yourself,” she corrected.

“But yes, it’s a date.

” As they sat in that small town diner, rain tapping gently against the windows and the scent of apple pie in the air, Alexander Blackwood, who had navigated the cutthroat waters of global finance without blinking, found himself utterly, completely content for perhaps the first time in his adult life.

And Abby Jenkins, who had never planned to leave Willowbrook Valley, discovered that sometimes the whole world could open up without taking a single step from home.

Just so we’re clear, Alexander said, his thumb tracing circles on her palm.

I’m terrible at mending chicken coops.

I know, Abby replied with a laugh that made his heart stutter.

I’m counting on it.

Outside, the summer rain washed the world clean, promising new beginnings as unlikely as they were perfect.

6 months later, the Willowbrook town square was transformed.

Twinkling lights hung from every tree and a dusting of early December.

Snow gave the scene a magical quality.

The winter festival was in full swing.

Children building snowmen, couples ice skating on the temporary rink, and towns people gathered around fire pits sipping hot chocolate.

From her booth, where she sold homemade jams and preserves, Abby had a perfect view of the most inongruous site in Willowbrook’s history.

Alexander Blackwood, billionaire CEO, was hanging Christmas lights on the gazebo, directed by none other than Mrs.

Caldwell, the town’s most particular event organizer.

A little higher on the left, dear,” the elderly woman instructed, gesturing emphatically with her cane.

“We can’t have crooked lights at the winter ball.

” Alexander, perched precariously on a ladder in jeans and a cablek- knit sweater, adjusted the strand with surprising patience.

His Italian leather shoes had been replaced by practical winter boots, and his perfectly styled hair was hidden beneath a knit cap that Abby had made him.

“Is this acceptable, Mrs.

Caldwell?” he asked, his crisp British accent still a novelty that made heads turn in the small town.

The old woman squinted critically.

“It’ll do now.

Come down before you break your neck.

Your fancy company can’t run itself if you’re in traction.

Alexander’s laugh, warm and genuine, carried across the square to Abby, who couldn’t help but smile.

6 months ago, she couldn’t have imagined Alexander Blackwood taking orders from a retired school teacher or hanging Christmas lights in a small town gazebo.

Yet, here he was, not just surviving in Willowbrook, but thriving.

The Blackwood Sustainable Resources Center on the edge of town now employed 15 local residents researching environmentally responsible mining techniques.

The old Jenkins farm had become a test site for land restoration methods with Abby consulting on agricultural integration.

Her father’s health had improved with specialized care from doctors Alexander had connected them with, and Vernon Prescott had mysteriously relocated to Florida after his business practices came under federal investigation.

Most surprising of all was how seamlessly Alexander had integrated himself into the fabric of Willowbrook.

He still flew to New York twice a month for board meetings and occasionally jet seted to London or Tokyo, but he always returned to the EDO stone cottage overlooking the valley.

And to Abby, “Your boyfriend’s got hidden talents,” Mabel commented, appearing beside Aby’s booth with two steaming cups of cider.

“Who knew a billionaire could hang Christmas lights?” “He’s full of surprises.

” Abby agreed, accepting the cider gratefully.

Speaking of surprises, Mabel continued with poorly concealed excitement.

I heard the sustainable center is expanding again.

50 new jobs coming to Willowbrook.

Abby nodded.

Alexander’s announcing it tonight at the Winter Ball.

This town won’t recognize itself in a year, Mabel observed.

All because a billionaire’s car got stuck in a ditch and a farm girl with a temper showed him what matters.

Before Abby could respond, Alexander appeared, his cheeks flushed from the cold.

“Mrs.

Caldwell has finally released me from decorating duty,” he announced, wrapping an arm around Aby’s waist and dropping a kiss on her temple.

“Hello, Mabel.

I hope you’ve prepared extra pie for tonight.

The governor’s bringing his entire staff already loaded in the community center,” Mabel assured him.

“Along with that fancy champagne you had flown in.

” Excellent.

Alexander’s phone buzzed and he checked it briefly.

Excuse me, ladies.

The final permits just came through for the expansion.

I need to make a few calls.

As he stepped away, Mabel nudged Abby.

That man is planning something bigger than a business expansion.

He’s been meeting with your father privately all week.

Abby rolled her eyes.

Daddy’s been helping him understand the history of the valley for the preservation initiative.

It’s not that mysterious.

If you say so, Mabel replied with a knowing smile.

Better finish up here and get ready for the ball.

Something tells me it’s going to be a night to remember.

Hours later, Abby stood in front of the mirror in her bedroom, hardly recognizing herself.

The emerald green gown Alexander had sent from New York.

To match your eyes, the card had read, transformed her from practical farmer to something from a fairy tale.

Her usually untamed auburn hair was swept into an elegant updo, courtesy of the stylist Alexander had brought in from the city for the town’s ladies.

A knock at her door revealed her father, handsome in a new suit, his eyes bright with pride and something else, a secret joy he seemed barely able to contain.

“You look just like your mother,” he said, voice thick with emotion.

“You think she’d approve?” Abby asked, suddenly nervous.

of all of this of Alexander.

Harold Jenkins took his daughter’s hands.

Your mother always said true love doesn’t change who you are.

It reveals who you’ve always been.

That young man didn’t change you, Ladybug.

He just helped you shine brighter.

At the community center transformed into a winter wonderland of silver and blue, Alexander waited at the entrance.

When he saw Abby, his expression of stunned appreciation made every minute she’d spent preparing worth it.

“You are,” he said quietly as she reached him.

“The most beautiful woman I have ever seen, charmer,” she replied, though her blush betrayed her pleasure at the compliment.

“Only with you,” he assured her, offering his arm.

“Shall we?” The winter ball was Willow Brook’s most elegant tradition, but this year it exceeded all previous durations.

Alexander had brought in a string quartet from New York, supplemented by local musicians.

The governor delivered a speech about rural economic development, specifically praising the innovative partnership between Blackwood Industries and Willowbrook Valley.

And now, the mayor announced, Mr.

Blackwood would like to say a few words about the expansion project.

Alexander took the microphone, commanding the room effortlessly.

Thank you, Mayor Davis.

When my car slid into a ditch in Willowbrook Valley 6 months ago, I considered it a disaster.

Today, I recognize it as the most fortunate accident of my life.

He detailed the expansion plans, the research facilities, the job creation, the environmental commitments with the precision of a seasoned CEO.

But his eyes kept finding Abby in the crowd, softening each time.

However, he continued, “While I’m proud of what we’ve accomplished professionally, I find myself tonight more concerned with matters of a personal nature.

” A curious murmur rippled through the crowd.

Alexander set aside the microphone and walked directly to Abby, taking her hands in his.

“Abigail Jenkins,” he said, his voice steady despite the vulnerability in his eyes.

“Before I met you, I measured success in acquisitions and profit margins.

I built an empire, but never a home.

” Aby’s heart began to race as Alexander reached into his pocket and to the gasps of the assembled towns people knelt on one knee.

You taught me that true wealth isn’t counted in bank balances, but in moments of genuine connection, he continued, opening a small velvet box to reveal a stunning emerald ring surrounded by diamonds.

You showed me that the most valuable things life can’t be bought or sold.

They can only be given freely.

Tears welled in Aby’s eyes as Alexander took a breath and asked, “Will you marry me, Abby? Will you build a life with me that bridges both our worlds?” The community center fell silent, every eye on the unlikely couple, the billionaire on one knee and the farmer’s daughter in her emerald gown.

On one condition, Abby managed, her voice trembling.

Alexander raised an eyebrow, waiting.

Promise me, she said.

That no matter how many companies you acquire or how powerful you become, you’ll always help me feed the chickens on Sunday mornings.

Relief and joy transformed Alexander’s face.

“Miss Jenkins, I will feed those ridiculous birds every day for the rest of my life if it means waking up beside you.

” “Then yes,” Abby said, pulling him to his feet.

“Yes, I will marry you.

” As Alexander slipped the ring onto her finger and the room erupted in cheers, Abby whispered, “I love you, Alexander Blackwood.

Private jets and all.

” And I love you, Abigail.

Jenkins, he replied, gathering her close.

Chickens and all.

The string quartet began to play, and Alexander led Abby to the center of the dance floor.

As they moved together in perfect rhythm, the watching town’s people saw not a billionaire and a farmer’s daughter, but simply two people who had found in each other the missing pieces of themselves.

Later that night, as snow began to fall again outside the community center windows, Harold Jenkins approached the newly engaged couple.

“I believe congratulations are in order,” he said, shaking Alexander’s hand firmly.

“Thank you, sir,” Alexander replied.

“I promise to take care of your daughter.

” Harold chuckled.

“Son, I’ve known Abby longer than you have.

She doesn’t need taken care of, but loving her, that’s a job worth doing, right? I intend to,” Alexander assured him.

As her father moved away to accept congratulations from neighbors, Abby turned to her fiance.

“Are you sure about this? Marrying me means accepting Willowbrook as part of your life forever.

No turning back.” Alexander’s response was to lead her outside where the snow was falling in gentle flakes against the backdrop of the town square, the same place where they had danced under the stars during the Founders Day festival.

He cuped her face in his hands.

Abby Jenkins, do you know what I see when I look at Willowbrook now? She shook her head.

I see the place where I finally found what I didn’t know I was searching for.

He brushed a snowflake from her cheek.

I spent years conquering the world, only to discover that what I truly wanted was a corner of it to call home with you.

As they sealed this promise with a kiss, snow swirling around them like nature’s blessing, Abby reflected on how differently things had turned out from that fateful day when chickens scattered across a country road.

Alexander Blackwood had come to Willowbrook Valley hunting for minerals and found something infinitely more precious.

And she, Abigail Jenkins, who had never planned to leave the farm, had discovered that sometimes the greatest adventures happen right where you are with the right person by your side.

In the years that followed, Willowbrook Valley would prosper under the unlikely partnership of the billionaire and the farmer’s daughter.

The Jenkins family farm would become a model of sustainable agriculture alongside responsible mineral extraction.

Harold Jenkins would regain much of his health and delight in teaching his grandchildren how to collect eggs without getting pecked.

And every Sunday morning, without fail, Alexander Blackwood, CEO, billionaire, and devoted husband, would dawn his wellies, grab a bucket of feed, and help his wife tend to her award-winning freerange organic egg laying champions.

Because some promises, like some love stories, are simply too precious to break.